Youth's Arrogance
by iviscrit
Summary: Now complete! "You said you'd control for me, scheme for me, torture for me, and even kill for me. Would you stop all of that, for me? Can you promise me that?" He inhaled sharply. "You know that I-" "-don't make promises that you're liable to break. Right." she said softly. TMR/MM. Please R&R!
1. Meeting

A/N: Written during class today. No judgment. Enjoy!

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><p>The woman was tall, her hair dark and graying. It was a terrible shade of brown, the color of dead wood, and presumably dyed that color by veined hands that shook when they held the bottle of potion, hands desperate to avoid the ravages of time. She is tall, easily standing shoulder to shoulder with the men, and her head is level with all but the tallest. Her frame may have been elegant once but it is hard to say now that she has gone to seed, unflattering rolls and wads lie heavy on her aged muscles. She is devoid of tone and the fat is obvious, forming creases and protrusions visible through her unflattering ensemble. Everything she wears is unflattering, from the garish green blouse to the tangerine cardigan. Even the ill-fitting sandals, a pathetic attempt to be stylish, is unflattering. She wears glasses, ugly heavy things with thick lenses. They are low on her nose, exactly in the middle, appearing to elongate her face.<p>

Her manner is far worse than her appearance -she didn't know that was possible. It's not that she's unreasonable -she isn't. It's not that she's unfair -she isn't. It's the pathetic demeanor she has, so lethargic, oblivious, and desperate to please. She is not cut out to be a teacher, she lacks the blunt authority, raw energy, and intelligence to adequately fill that profession.

Her class consists of an assignment on the board in writing that well befits a fifth grader. The letter stray and meander, the baseline a strong downward slant. She has nothing to contribute, no useful insight to offer. She is bland, so very bland. Her remarks are empty words, obviously formed by those thin, dry, lifeless lips to fill the dead air she fears and to give her some semblance of wit. The realization that merely being chatty is no substitute has not dawned on her yet. Perhaps it never will. All in all, she is unfit to teach.

_She_ will never be like that woman.

She shifts almost insolently in her seat, one knee up and braced against the desk, the other leg stretched out and relaxed. Her blouse is untucked and the position of her legs has caused her pleated skirt to fall back, making her gangly legs appear longer than they are. Her hair is loose and her glasses are tucked away in her purse. She never wears them in _this_ class. Never. her hair covers half her face in an onyx curtain, obscuring her supercilious smirk as she imagines what must go on in the poor sad creature's home after a night of substandard existence. She must be single, she decides... although, the woman likely found a man as boring and unappealing as herself -people such as her often do- but she prefers her to be single, as it adds to the dismal life she has fancied. The house would be dull and decorated in a sad attempt to be quaint. Her smirk broadens and becomes obvious as she pictures a vase of dying daisies on a doily, a dingy white tablecloth, white walls, unoriginal mailbox art.

She's careful to not reveal it though, she knows better. She already is known for her stern and bossy demeanor, usually unwilling to waste time on the slow. So she rests her chin on her hand and smiles sweetly, careful to not betray the condescension in her eyes, especially when the woman comes to speak with her and asks repeatedly for book recommendations. She plays her part. She can be charming when she wants to be.

She doesn't try to get attention. she isn't that type. But something about her long pale legs, irreverently resting on the desk, her loose hair only half-hiding her cold smile, her quill noisily scratching away at her parchment writing something unrelated to divination, all of this has drawn the eyes of another.

He knows she's the wrong sort to be "friendly" with, but that doesn't put a damper on his interest. It may be hormones, or he may just be bored, but his eyes follow the insolently smiling Minerva McGonagall all through class, now that she reveals a side separate from the prissy prefect he knows her to be. And when class ends and she heaves a sigh of "Finally!" slipping out of the room before the others, he follows her.

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><p><strong>AN: Heyyy y'all. So the lady described in the beginning is a cruel yet accurate portrayal of our sub today. :P I know, I'm awful. I think it's pretty obvious who dear Minerva was based off of now, isn't it? -_- Anyway I'm going to make this a drabble series. Review please!**


	2. Mutual

A/N: Here's my second drabble. Afraid it ran long. :P Hope you like it!

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He had learned to be more lighthearted around her, and drop the charming facade. He realized it didn't work on her when he'd heard her mention it scathingly to a fellow prefect -"nauseating," she'd called it- and his blood boiled at that line...but he gradually changed. No, never actually changed, but he made the facade seem more natural. People, he knew, always wanted to feel special, and Minerva was no exception. So he altered his behavior just enough that she would believe he was truly himself with her. She was perceptive, he knew, and would know his innocence was feigned, at least in part, so he let slip some of his darker doings. No, nothing that would compromise his plans, of course, but enough: a glimpse of _Magicke Moste Evil_ stowed in his bookbag, a knowing smile when she saw his sketches of a dark mark, an elegant eyebrow raised at her scrutiny of his darker experiments on the small animals and insects on the grounds, but never attempts to cover them up. And whispers made their way back to him. He heard of how she inisted at first that he wasn't really as he behaved. She grew frustrated when she wasn't believed, not even by her friends. And she came to think perhaps it was just _her_, perhaps she was the variable that, introduced to the fray, caused the difference in behavior.

And he would smile when he learned all this and return to his work.

"You look positively wicked this morning," she said, tone brisk as she slid next to him on the bench.

"You look positively lovely," he said, scooting over to make room and ignoring the looks they were now accustomed to getting. "Anything in mind for today?"

She ignored the pleasantry. "Not going to tell me who you poisoned, hmm?"

"It's a slow-acting poison," he said, humoring her. "You'll know when it's too late. Sausage?"

"Thanks." She ignored the other boys, his group of friends who deliberately crowded them, refusing to allow them a true bit of alone time. It was pathetically obvious, Tom thought. They wanted to hear what they said. "Will you help with the tutoring today, or are you busy researching all the secrets of Salazar Slytherin?"

"I only skipped once, Minerva," he said, rolling his eyes. "Give me a break."

"You get no mercy," she said dismissively. "So will you be there, or not?" She jabbed his chest with a finger. "And tell the truth." Now her voice was playfully mocking.

Tom rolled his eyes as the boys around him tittered. "I'll be there," he said in a lazy drawl.

"Good," she said, leaning over and taking a bite of his eggs and a sip of his juice, as if to show that she could. She didn't say anything else for the rest of the meal though; she seemed slightly annoyed by the company of Slug Club boys that hovered around Tom seemingly at all times. The bell rang for class.

"What time?" he asked as she stood up, hoisting her enormous bookbag.

She bent down and kissed him quickly on the mouth, in full view of everyone before he could stand, catching him by surprise. "At three," she said. "Bye." And she was gone.

That afternoon went utterly wasted, Tom decided, spent apart and trying to teach arithmancy to third year students who were hopeless. And he told her so later that night.

"Why do you bother helping, then?" she demanded in another argument, wincing as he grabbed her upper arms. "And watch it, you're bruising me."

"For some reason I keep thinking if I do the insipid things _you_ enjoy..."

"I'll what? Help you with your stupid dark arts research?" She snorted. "I don't care what you do, but I'm not getting into that. Do something practical if you must, like Transfiguration. You're brilliant at it, even better than me."

"You're so tame," he said, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I can't stand you when you're patronizing."

"I love it when _you_ are. Remember, that's how i first took an interest in you."

She cut off his words as she kissed him, roughly pulling herself up against him. From that point on things progressed as they always did. "I'm not fragile, Tom," she would always whisper when he thought to reign himself in. "I won't break like the other girls."

"What other girls," he would say, not really asking, and things would begin anew.

By now she was unabashed about leaving his room with him in the mornings, and she cooly walked through the snake pit of a common room on his arm with all the indifference of a cat. She said she didn't care about gossip. He knew no one would, openly. His influence extended farther than she knew.

They lived arrogantly, secure in the knowledge that they were each the top of their respective classes, each in positions of authority, and each able to get away with anything. For Minerva this knowledge was enough, and she stayed within the lines -mostly. For Tom, he took advantage whereever he could. He liked what they had. There was no worry of her emotional investment -severing those ties was always messy, he'd learned. Their respective attraction was there in full force, but the risk of feelings becoming entangled was absent. Her brusque manner with him irked and fascinated him; she was the first girl who hadn't behaved like an idiot when faced with his soft advances. And he was certain that she was as fond of him -if not more so- as he was of her.

It worked out. He wasn't sure if it was youth's arrogance that made him so confident that things would remain this way for a good while, but he felt sure they would.

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**A/N: Oh Tommy-boy. You douchebag you. Next drabble will have some more Minerva POV! Review for me, lovelies!**


	3. Misunderstanding

A/N: Hey, y'all. I write too much in class. Don't judge me. Unless you're judging me with a review.

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Minerva enjoyed herself.

She lived carelessly, behaved thoughtlessly, loved with abandon. She scoffed at phrases like "perfectly contented" and loudly proclaimed her disdain for romantic cliches. Even with her friend Pomona Sprout and Poppy Pomfrey, she would gloss over the exact nature of her relationship with Tom, making them sound more like a bickering old married couple than anything else. In public, she was deliberately casual, even rude to him, shrugging off his slippery, carefully crafted whispers as small things of no consequence. He had an effect on her when he least thought he did, and it amused her when she saw him grow perplexed when she didn't respond to his advances, but would at things he deemed insignificant. She knew the charm was a facade, and she knew he deliberately let things slip. She knew she would only know as much as he let her know. What _he_ didn't know was that she was drawn to him for reasons he wouldn't have imagined. She was the established "good girl" of Hogwarts, and her Head Girl badge did nothing but buttress that image. Tom was her outlet to express the insolent, insensitive side she kept tightly reigned in and fixed in place by a mask of stern and commanding compassion. He often told her, when she teasingly asked -usually at night, behind closed doors and between cotton sheets- that he first noticed her when she was openly sneering at the divination teacher. "What sort catches your eye, then?" she had whispered, trailing her fingers down his hollow cheek.

"All sorts," he said huskily, as she had leaned unconsciously into his touch. "The weak seeking protection. The strong seeking to terrorize. The ambitious, seeking some shared glory. And you," he finishes, making her arch into him, gasping his name into the hollow of his neck. It is only then that she feels undone, and she's always a bit annoyed that she can't make him feel the same.

"You always say that like I'm an afterthought," she tells him once she has mastered herself again.

"You could never be an afterthought."

Minerva isn't fond of the phrase "in love." She and Tom, on the anniversary of their first date, had discussed how meaningless it was, how cliche, how worthless the words were. She said it partly because she figured she could fall in love at thirty, an older woman with less fire in her blood. She does feel, however, that she loves him. Maybe youth's arrogance prevents her from saying it to him freely, but she grows more convinced of it day by day. Sometimes she wants to mention it to him, but she feels uncharacteristically uncertain, unsure if she'll like his answer. She loves his ability to awaken parts of her she subdues, yet she resents his ability to subdue _her_. And over it all, she feels tender towards him in a way that would make him wrinkle his nose and scowl as he is so wont to do in those situations.

"You're brilliant," she had said once, in the library after hours, in a voice quite loaded with the emotion she felt after he successfully coached her through a difficult bit of defense against the dark arts spell work, holding her hand with his body pressed against hers from behind and guiding her through the complicated motions. He was completely unaware of the significance to her; it was obvious he just saw it as something to teach. She was quite swept up in the manner in which he taught, how patient he was with her, not at all his methods with the third years they tutored.

"I know," he had replied without even looking up, smiling at the compliment. "Thanks."

She had tilted his face up to look at her, and repeated herself. "I mean it. You're really brilliant, you know that?" Her voice conveyed how touched she felt, the depth of love that welled up in that moment. She was sure her face conveyed it as well. But his response was so lackluster.

"Thanks," he said slowly, looking unsure how to respond.

She had kissed him, lightly, on the cheek. "I feel about five years old now," he said, trying to lighten the mood. His face had changed; he somehow looked unsettled, and he had a scowl playing about his mouth. She didn't bring it up much after that. Softer feelings were not to be shared with Tom. She had learned that now.

Still, she enjoyed the other facets of their relationship. Minerva wasn't fond of deeming things "perfect" when life could never be such a thing, but she was more than content with how things were. She imagined they'd stay that way a long time.

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**A/N: So the little sis tells me it sounds like I'm writing notes about her character after I forced her to listen to me read this to her. XD Review and tell me what you think! Next up: random third person POV!**


	4. I can't think of a good title :

A/N: Come on, guys, review if you're reading this! Please? :( Thank yous go to Aquitane, Eva, and americanathogwarts for reviewing for me. Don't you want a cookie? Cookies to anyone who reviews!

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><p>There was something not quite right about them.<p>

The young man was remarkably handsome, and quite tall for his age, and the girl with him was slim, athletically built, and pretty. There was something very intimate about them, in the way they carried themselves, in the way that they put their heads together, hair mingling, that made one smile after watching them a few moments. Their eyes would meet, and they'd share a glance as though they could see exactly what the other was thinking, a closeness that was both adorable and unsettling. Whereever they went, they could not avoid being noticed.

_The waitress_

The young wizard caught her eye when he walked in, dark hair tousled from the wind and snowflakes melting on his cloak. He didn't give her a second look though, as he made his way to a table she waited on. It was pure good luck, pure coincidence, she decided, and she straightened her auburn curls hurriedly as she went to take his order, a winning smile in place.

"Nothing for me, not yet," he said dismissively.

"Not even water?" she said sweetly. "Or coffee, it's so cold out."

"Cold doesn't bother me." He smiled disarmingly. "Are you quite well? You're a bit pink in the face."

She bit her lip. "Oh, I'm fine. Call if you need anything." It wasn't long after this exchange that she saw the girl enter, see where the young man sat, and wave, her face lighting up. She saw with disappointment that he looked up, and a slow smile spread over his features, a pleased smile and slightly teasing, a smile that became a smirk somewhere around the eyes. She was jealous of the girl, jealous that he only smiled like that for her.

She couldn't help but watch as the girl dragged the chair so it was next to his, sat, and kissed him hello. He was still smiling at her when she finished, and beckoned her closer. She watched as the girl inclined her head, her black hair falling in a sheet over his shoulder, his own wavy dark strands mixing with hers as he whispered something in her ear. She leaned against the counter, waiting for the girl's reaction. She was surprised when the young witch tossed her hair, said something in reply, and then laughed at her friend's sour expression. He drummed his fingers on the table, suddenly turning towards her and murmuring something. Now the girl reddened a bit, and smiled at him. The waitress was certain she was observing a textbook example of soulmates. It nauseated her, awakening feelings of embarrassment for her rather poor advance moments earlier; she felt a pang of envy. "Jenna," she called, "will you wait on table seven

for me today?"

_The gentleman_

He was unaccustomed to seeing public displays on the streets of London, yet the two he beheld now made it seem natural. His first response had been to narrow his eyes and look away, giving the immodest couple their privacy. The girl looked unmovable, her face remaining composed and a slight smile on her face even as her companion drew her close to him by the waist, pushing his face into her curtain of hair and either kissed her or whispered something in her ear. She didn't bat an eye, instead saying something the gentleman couldn't catch, and the young man smiled, a sly smile. They were surrounded by people as they went about their business, but it seemed to their onlooker that they were enclosed in a bubble, not just oblivious to the outside world but quite shut off from it. The longer he watched them, the less it seemed like they ought to be doing this in some degree of privacy. They were so natural together. Something unsettled him, though. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something about the knowing looks they cast everyone and the shared whispers afterward gave them the appearance of some other knowledge, of some abilities uncommon to the average Londoner. When the young man's eyes met his own, he flinched, even as a man likely ten years the youth's senior. He thought he would never forget those eyes, dark, sly, a flash of scarlet-

"Obliviate."

The word was whispered but he read it off the lips of the young man, and he-

He was unaccustomed to-

He was unaccustomed to-

He was unaccustomed to-

Dimly he tried to remember his reason for being there. As he left to collect his thoughts, he thought he saw a girl arguing with her boyfriend- "you can't just _do _those things to muggles, Tom-" she was saying. But it didn't seem important, and the gentleman walked on.

_The teachers  
><em>A teacher is never oblivious to the goings on in their school. One of the biggest advantages is that the students forget that there is someone always there, always listening, always aware of the student dealings. A teacher, the students think, would never listen. They are part of the room, no more interested in their gossip than a desk or a wall.

But walls have ears.

I, for one, think it's a good match.

A good match? In what way? Elaborate.

They're both very bright, both exemplary examples of students, both good leaders -they tutor on Wednesdays, too- and, I daresay, quite a handsome couple.

Yes, Horace, all true.. But what about personality?

I beg your pardon?

Don't you find them to be poles apart?

I don't understand how you see that. They are alike enough, polite, smart, pleasing personalities... I actually think Miss McGonagall is a bit more brusque than Tom, perhaps a bit more bossy, you know. It's quite funny to watch how he lets her have her way so often. I do think the boy is quite crazy about her.

_Minerva_ is more brusque? Bossy?

Controlling, maybe. She isn't the romantic sort... pity. But Tom seems to like that. It's rare that they aren't together outside of class.

Controlling? I think you may have your students mixed up, Horace. A difficult feat, as they are each of a different gender... though, I suppose, confusion may be excusable as they are both tall, with dark hair, in Hogwarts robes.

Albus, I don't get what you're driving at.

It's not important. Something tells me this 'perfect couple' of yours will not last. They do not see it themselves, yet. I believe their youth's arrogance makes them so convinced that things as they are will last.

Why won't it last?

Horace, let's talk about knitting patterns now. I found the most intriguing design for a tea cozy, and I'm wondering if you should like one to fit a cauldron. What do you say?

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><p><strong>AN: Hellz yes. I haven't planned anything else out yet.. give me ideas for the next drabble's theme!**


	5. first fight

A/N: Angel from the Sea, this one is for you. Thanks for reviewing. :D

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He hadn't expected it to happen the way it did.

They had made plans for the evening, deciding to spend it in the Room of Requirement for an indiscernable amount of time. "I'd rather we go some place off campus," Minerva said, "but we'd end up in trouble after curfew and all," she added, quite matter-of-factly. So after dinner they returned to their respective common rooms with their respective friends and said no more about it. Minerva was teased for being more invested in her boyfriend than her friends. Tom was teased for "shagging a Gryffindor." Minerva apologized and promised to reform. Tom inflicted a couple of jinxes without batting an eye, and casually mentioned something about having to go and meet Minerva.

"Now?" Dolohov asked incredulously.

"Yes, now," Tom said coolly. "Why? Is there a problem?" And with that he left.

Minerva was already inside, waiting for him. "Someone is late."

"Fashionably," he replied. "Now that we're here, what's on the agenda?"

"Oh, the usual," she said, running her hands along his arms. "We'll probably banter a bit, talk about schoolwork, bicker, and then snog."

"You are so regular," he said.

"And you aren't?"

"Not so much as you, no." He glanced around. "Oh, look at that, the room provided us with a bed."

"That's odd, it's only nine." They exchanged looks. "The room is classless," Minerva said evenly, "but I'm okay with that."

"More importantly, there's a liquor cabinet," Tom said, and it wasn't long before they were engrossed in the books on the nightstand and half-drunk with scotch.

It started differently for each of them. Minerva doesn't remember what he said that set her off. Tom is convinced he only made a joke about Dumbledore. Minerva doesn't know if she insulted him or slapped him first. Tom remembers everything after his comment in vivid detail. What does it say when the one who forgave and forgot genuinely forgot, but the offender remembers and still doesn't apologize?

"You know, Tom, I have some suspicions regarding the theft of Dippet's absinthe stash," Minerva began playfully, taking a sip from his glass. "I believe I saw a young man -rather handsome, extremely attractive- leave the headmaster's office with a case of the stuff."

"Did you now?" Tom drained his glass. "What an upstanding fellow. Absinthe was declared illegal in 1915, so Dippet has been getting away with it for far too long. I'm glad someone sees to it that wrongs are righted."

"You'd have me believe that you're a saint, wouldn't you, Mr. Riddle?" she said, pulling him close to her by the tie. "What if I saw the young man garnish drinks with hemlock, and give them to his friends as a warning later?"

"You were asleep."

"That's what you thought."

"Well, it's immaterial. What if I saw a young witch, recently come of age, making eyes at the old transfiguration professor? I believe she's taking private lessons... I can only wonder what goes on in that empty classr-"

The alcohol had loosened his tongue and Minerva's presence had loosened his guard. Her closeness was intoxicating in itself; the perfume of her hair, and the cutting knife of her dialogue had an effect on him more potent than the scotch. But his words were cut off and his reverie interrupted by a slap to the face, as sharp as her words often were. His cheek burned like the fire he saw in her eyes, blazing green and narrowed to slits. "_What_ did you just say?" In half a second she was off his lap and standing over him. One part of him refused to stand for her uncalled-for uncivility, while another could only register how perfect she looked when livid.

But the arrogance won out. "Nothing that's untrue." He stood as well, forcing her to tilt her face up to keep eye contact. "You didn't deny it."

"Of course it's untrue! He's an old man! You're implying that I.. that... we.."

Tom laughed coldly. "Minerva, I don't give a damn if you're interested in Dumbledore. I'm the one who has you all to himself for the other twenty-three hours of the day."

"If you keep insisting that I'm..._interested_ in him you don't need to see me for those hours either," she snapped. "Why do you bring up things like this when I just want to spend time alone with you?"

"You started the ad hominem attacks." She raised her hand, sputtering in indignation. Riddle anticipated her move, and seized her wrist in a crushing grip. "Wait, don't interrupt me. Suppose _I_ took _your_ comment about the hemlock seriously?"

She raised her other hand, only to have it imprisoned as well. "Damn you, you know perfectly well I was serious! That was a cruel joke to play on them. It could have gotten out of hand so easily. You're so... macabre, sometimes, you're almost sadistic... I blame your constant obsession with the dark-"

"Shut the fuck up."

"-I will not, I'm not done!- your obsession with the dark arts is making you so inhuman, and you don't even realize it!" She was crying now, a few tears on her cheeks and her voice trembling, not out of pain or hurt feelings but her frustration, which had long since reached its boiling point. "You never get it. Just because you don't tell me everything you think I don't know that there's more to what you-"

"I told you to shut up." His voice was low, restrained, and deathly cold.

She jerked her arms twice, first up, then down, and let them fall slack. "This counts as abuse, you know," she said, trying to kick.

It was too predictable, and Tom found it easy to let go of her arms and deflect her leg, making her fall to the ground. In moments she found herself imprisoned in his arms, trying to get loose, and in desperation she resolved to transform and effectively extricate herself. She never got that chance. In an instant one of his hands found the back of her head, and he crushed his mouth to hers, swallowing her swear words and her breath.

Minerva remembers what follows. She generally remembers the good, and either forgets or forgives the bad. He had kissed her, and though she initially clenched her teeth and tried to turn her head, she found herself relenting and almost immediately, Tom became gentle. "You shouldn't take things so seriously," he mumurs.

"I know," she says, arms around his neck again, not noticing the purple fingerprints on her wrists. "But you've been saying things like that far too much, and you went too far, and-"

"Shhh," he says, and kisses her again, this time with none of the brutality of before. "I forgive you."

She feels annoyance resurfacing. "Are you _serious_? For what, dare I ask?" He laughs, and she realizes he prefers her as she is: no-nonsense, sharp, and frank. And she realizes she prefers him to be as he was when he silenced her, albeit minus the anger.

They give new meaning to the phrase "kiss and make up" and too often their fights are resolved in this way. Still, it wasn't the only initiator to the doings afterward, and it wasn't a bad outcome either.

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**A/N: Angel from the Sea, this is for you. Hope I did it justice. I think I should make this a oneshot series...I can't do drabbles, they're too short!**


	6. Action

_So tell me that you love me, anyway_

Hey all! I'm back and there are updates for more of my fics coming at ya! SherbetKitty, I'm dedicating this to you. I think you already know why. ;) Enjoy!

0o0o0o

"What are you reading?" she asked, hooking her chin over his shoulders and her arms encircling his chest, peeking at the book in his hands before he snapped it shut.

"Curiousity killed the cat," he said smoothly. "But here's a hint. 'How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.'"

"Oh, Tom." Minerva rolled her eyes. "You know, words are empty. If you really love someone-"

"-yes, yes, 'actions speak louder than words.'" It was now his turn to roll his eyes. "I never thought you would be so trite, Minerva."

"Yes, shocking, I know." She winked. "Knowing your mildly obsessive nature, I trust you'll be out to prove it to me through action at the slightest opportunity."

Only 'mildly'? "Naturally."

0o0o0o

The door slammed violently behind her. "My _god_ am I upset."

Hastily Riddle slipped his Dark Arts book deep into his book bag, pulling out Shakespeare in its stead. "Well _that_ was a fine hello." He was sure she wasn't joking or exaggerating when she flung her bag at the couch, where it thudded loudly inches from his body. He raised his eyebrows. "Trying to send me a message or something?"

She sat next to him, spine painfully upright, tossing the bag on the ground, and the abuse -likely long sustained- caused it to split and spill its contents. "No, it's not you." She kicked a book. "You know the Ministry summer internship I applied for?"

He frowned. "They refused you?"

"No! They're demanding that I take all the health examinations now before they even consider the application. So when I went to set things up, they told me they 'couldn't possibly, not for another week at least!'" She scowled. "And it's another two days before I get the results, and by then the deadline for applying will have passed. Why they couldn't have told me this _one month ago_ when I expressed interest and asked what all applying would entail, I have no damn idea."

Riddle massaged her tensed shoulders, smirking when she relaxed them at last and slumped against him. "So you're upset, and rightfully so. Does that give you an excuse to try and kill me with books?"

"Tom Riddle, the world does not revolve around the preservation of your life." She looked up at him. "And you know, on top of that the girl who gave me directions on where to go had no bloody idea which building, or which department. She took me to the one for magical law human resources instead of employee services!"

"The audacity."

She put her hand under his chin and turned his face down to hers. "Are you even listening to my rant?"

"Certainly." He gave her a hard peck on the cheek, standing and saying, "I think I need to have a word with Slughorn about my last essay, Minerva...the man gave me an E, I can't imagine why..."

0o0o0o

A sudden motion at his right hand caused him to spill pumpkin juice on himself. "Watch it, you bloody imbecile- oh. Good morning, Minerva." The boys at his table concealed their snickering rather poorly.

"No, it's 'you bloody imbecile,' remember?" she said sweetly, cleaning him up herself. "Tom, fantastic news. I got an owl saying I can go today, there's been a sudden opening. Since the rest of my paperwork is ready, I can go to London again for the weekend and finalize everything!"

"How fortunate," Riddle said, and added innocently, "what do you suppose prompted the sudden change of heart?"

"They said my 'resume and many talents' were brought to their attention," she said, reading the letter in the wavery handwriting and frowned suddenly. "I didn't leave my resume with the health office..."

"Obviously, someone else did." Three, two, one...

Comprehension dawned on her. "You? Tom, you are perfect." She kissed him in thanks, grazing his cheek with her fingers as she pulled back and studied his face, a moment he'd replay endlessly in his head long after it transpired. "That is far too sweet of you. Why?"

"Actions, Minerva."

She was puzzled. "What?"

"You say that you find me 'perfect.' The rule doesn't just apply to me. Actions-"

"Oh, shut up," she said, and kissed him again, staying there for the duration of breakfast.

0o0o0o

"I'm sorry, sir, but we can't move her appointment up, regardless of her credentials," the bespectacled wizard said in his maddeningly nasal drone.

Riddle smiled. Poor man, he didn't know what a foolish answer he had given. "Oh, but you can, sir."

"Young man, I don't think you quite get it. It is quite impossible for us to-"

"Crucio." In seconds the man's face was contorted in agony and his screams echoed off the marble walls of his dim office. Riddle savored the taste of the magic channeled through the wand. The Unforgivable Curses gave him that euphoric rush, that sensation that his wand had truly come to life and was an extension of his arm, better than any other magic. "I'm going to ask you again, sir," he said, his pleasant, soft spoken demeanor back in place as he ended the spell and the man dropped to his desk, sobbing, "and if you don't have the answer I want, I'll ask you again, and again after that. I'm very patient, you see."

"I'll do it! I'll do it, I promise-" His words were cut short and pleas for leniency fell from his lips as Riddle used the curse again, this time hoisting the man up a foot above his desk.

"I don't want empty promises, sir," Riddle said softly. "I want action. Write the letter informing her of an appointment now. And order your staff to make an exception. Her resume is to be the reason."

"Yes, yes of course, I'll do it," the man cried, letting out a whimper as Riddle dropped him into his chair. Hands shaking, he wrote the letter and handed it to Riddle.

"Good," he said, laying it down. "And in case you think someone will have heard your cries for help and will be on their way, no one has heard you. I've silenced the corridor. And if you don't make good on your promise, there will be hell to pay." He smiled again. "Any questions, or have I covered it all?"

"Who _are _you?" the man whispered weakly.

"You may call me Lord Voldemort," he said lazily, "though I doubt you'll remember it until it's far too late for the knowledge to do you any good."

"What do you-"

"Obliviate."

He left, a smile on his lips.

_"Oh, Tom." Minerva rolled her eyes. "You know, words are empty. If you really love someone-"_

If this didn't count as action, then he didn't know what did.

FINIS

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><p><strong>AN: Did you LOVE it? Did you? This is loosely based off my experience today. For details, ask me. I think it's interesting to examine how Tom might go about proving his love... he wouldn't do it with flowers and sweet gestures, that's for sure. No, torturing an old man so you girlfriend can get the internship she wants just screams romance. Sherbet, I hope you especially enjoyed. :D Love to all who review!**


	7. Perfect

F3rn, you made my day! And so I dedicate this update to you. Also, Aquitane, you requested a Minerva drabble, soooo...enjoy!

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><p><em>Perfect<em> was a funny word. It was autological, homological, a Grellig-Nelson paradox. The word itself seemed like the perfect word in the English language to her. Seven letters, soft and sharp consonants against one another- if ever there were other perfect words, they were not in her vocabulary and she didn't care to know them.

Then again, perhaps she was biased, because everything seemed to be perfect to her now. She had accomplished all she had set out to do in her young life, and her adult life was just beginning. Graduating with maximum honors from Hogwarts, recruitment from the professional Quidditch leagues, a year of working for the Ministry under her belt, and Tom spending a good deal of his summer with her made for an excellent start. She knew where he was staying, and had even been to his flat for a number of nights, but preferred her own much more, as a year of living there lent it a familiarity his couldn't claim for a good while.

Her life with Tom also was painted in the soft hues of perfection. Breakfast with him was becoming increasingly frequent, as were their hushed conversations and ever-present arguments. She didn't see these as something to inspire worry. She suspected he had grown to enjoy them as much as she did. She had written her mother about him at the conclusion of her seventh year, and even brought him home with her to Scotland for a weekend to meet her family. Now, whenever she wrote home, his name was scattered throughout the parchment; she no longer recounted what she alone had done. It was always "Tom and I visited the Tower of London today" or "we spent the weekend in Muggle London, and Tom rather unfairly bested the street magician with a few real magic tricks." Sometimes, when she sat back and re-read the letters she sent home, it appeared as though she meant to constantly remind them of her blossoming relationship with the man, especially after the disaster with Dougal when she was seventeen.

But all of those extraneous thoughts disappeared in an instant the second the two were together, whether it was a furious argument or an amorous encounter. In one heated instant her wrists would be imprisoned by his long-fingered hands, his eyes would flash fire, she would tilt her head up and meet his eyes defiantly. And from there they'd crash into one another, be it literally or figuratively either to kiss or to curse, impassioned or enraged, to love or to battle. And both always ended in her being out of breath, her hair out of its usual knot, and five new bruises on each forearm. And after the denouement of both Tom would hold her against him, his fingers grazing her jawline, and they would discuss everything, from the latest political news she brought firsthand from the Ministry to his ongoing experimentation with his magic. If that wasn't perfection, she clearly didn't know the meaning of the word.

Her mother had smiled during their last chat, which left Minerva's knees sore after hours in her fireplace. "It sounds more and more like you're in love with him, Minerva."

She had blushed, and hoped the flames obscured it. "I am. You know that."

"Does he, though?" She frowned, and waited for her mother to continue. "And does he love you as well?"

Minerva didn't find the doubt offensive, coming from her parents. After her summer romance with Dougal two years ago, she could hardly blame them for being concerned about her. "I know he does. You don't know Tom... he's got a peculiar way of showing it."

Peculiar indeed, for he took the saying "I'd do anything for you" far too literally. She already knew him to be an avid follower of the 'ends justify the means' philosophy, and had often witnessed him engage in activities that pushed past the grey zone to further himself. Sometimes, he pushed too far, getting into territory that would easily be labeled as cruelty. At the beginning of her official employment at the Ministry -and the beginning of his seventh year at Hogwarts- he wrote to her, hinting that she hadn't gotten the summer internship solely because of a flawless resume. And when she confronted him about it once he graduated and their stays together were frequent enough for the both of them, he had told her the particulars. For two weeks she had refused to speak with him or even see him, until she returned home after an unusually long day at work and found the kitchen and breakfast area well-lit and pasta floating quietly over a small enchanted fire on the pot holder. And upon entering her bedroom, she had found Tom reclining on her bed, one of her books in his hands. He had apologized without having to say the words. Breaking and entering turned into his way of saying he was sorry.

"I don't see why you have a problem with it," he would say for the thousandth time when she would chastise him for using jinxes on those who vexed him in public, Confunding store owners, or even -to her horror- murmuring the Imperious curse and directing two white doves to bring her a woven wreath of purple thistles on her birthday.* "I did it for _you_, Minerva," he would whisper in her ear, his hands traversing her torso and pulling her flush against him.

"And I appreciate it Tom, but by that logic, would you kill for me, too?" she asked at last, after her many protestations and lectures on ethics got her nowhere.

"Certainly," he replied easily. "In a heartbeat." And catching her around the waist, he added, "I value your life nearly as much as my own."

For Tom, who couldn't speak of death without a scowl, this was high praise, and she forgave him. "Only 'nearly'?" she teased. "Not 'I could die for you'?"

"Keats was a fool," he replied with a smirk. "What good would my death do for you? Who would connive for you, and blackmail for you, and kill for you then? Notice," he said slyly, "how I didn't say 'protect you.' I know you can take care of yourself. I do all that for you because-"

"That's quite enough," she said firmly, holding her finger to his lips and exclaiming when he nipped it. "Don't say any more, because the last thing I want to do is turn you in to the ministry and have them conduct an investigation."

"-because I love you," he finished as if she hadn't interrupted, and she smiled as at last he made clear what she had known and had remained unsaid for months. Such encounters and declarations were always sure to leave both breathless by the end of the night, and in the aftermath she always decided that to be with him like this -_that_ was the epitome of perfection.

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><p><em>*thistles are the national flower of Scotland, I believe. Also, the quote "I could die for you" is the last line of a poem by John Keats, who, I believe, coined the phrase.<em>

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><p><strong>AN: Did you enjoy it? Because I enjoyed writing it. :D I think it's interesting to see their relationship from her eyes. I also think Minerva's idea that 'perfect' is autological reinforces the point of this chapter, that she doesn't really know what perfection is- that's why she is convinced that being with Tom (for now, at least) is perfect. Also, 'perfect' has seven letters, and we all know about the number seven... ;) ****I think I finally know where I want to go with this series. ****Review, darlings! Reviews are love! **


	8. eh i can't think of a title again

Hey all! Thanks to pressure from iamthewriter I'm updating when I would ordinarily be cleaning my room. Hope y'all enjoy. :D

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><p>He didn't understand why things were going wrong lately. He knew her better than anyone else, could predict her actions to a tee and act accordingly, could soothe her when she was worked into a rage and could ignite fire in her blood when there was none. He had eased her into his dealings so slowly it was as though nothing had changed, he had made sure to make his feelings for her clear time and time again. Who else would go to such lengths for her? Who else would stop at nothing to see her smile as he did? He was more often than not controlled and self-contained, but when she looked at him, head angled and the corners of her pursed lips pulled upward, shoulders bare and pushed forward, he lost himself a little. And all that aside, she was more valuable than she'd ever know. Having a pretty woman with him, wise in the ways of wizarding society was always an invaluable asset when recruiting. She knew that she alone was special, too. Who else had he interacted with to this degree of intimacy? Theirs was not a relationship solely rooted in physical attraction, something he was forced to admit to himself at times. What had changed? If he could date it from a certain time, he would say the trouble began in late December, shortly after a relatively large magical breakthrough of his, and before an impending wedding for one of her friends. But that wouldn't make sense, because nothing of note had happened that day...<p>

"Tom, stop it," she murmured, eyes fluttering open and hands curling around his shoulders, pushing him away. "Pomona said seven. I refuse to tarnish my flawless record of punctuality."

"You won't have to," he said. "You have an excuse. You insisted on getting ready at an appropriate time-" He glanced at the clock- "around, say, a quarter to six. And that _insufferable _Tom Riddle-"

"Insufferable how?" she said, returning his attentions at last.

"-insisted on delaying you, and kept you from Apparating without him."

"Very believable alibi, Tom." She turned, her back against his chest, and looked toward the window. "Your breath clouded the glass," she said. "I can't see outside very clearly."

"So wipe it."

"No, it'll freeze, and I'll trace out the most beautiful patterns when it does."

He chuckled. "You're so odd."

"You're not one to talk!" she laughed. "Do you know, you've left so many of your Dark Arts books at my place, I could fill an entire shelf with them?" She turned back to face him. "What do you need all those for, anyway? They're not all relevent to the artifacts you deal with."

"May I disctract you temporarily, and avoid the question?" he asked, tone light. "Because I'd rather enjoy this-" he ran his hands down her back, lingering at the arch in her spine, "rather than waste the same amount of time answering you."

"You're good at multitasking," she breathed, mouth to his ear and her scent enveloping him, "so do both." Feeling slightly intoxicated, he obliged her with both activities, though he was careful with his answers to her ever-present questions.

"But it's all in theory, of course," she said at last, matter-of-factly, when he had finished. "The practices are skills to have for the sake of having them, not for practical use."

"No," he said, "not at all. I don't half-ass things, Minerva, you know that. I do everything with intent."

"Right," she said, "but for normal things. Furthering your career, acquiring knowledge..." She paused, smile turning mischievous. "...pleasing me," she whispered, looking up at him through her lashes. "I never thought I'd be so touched to find out that someone had used a Confundous charm on my behalf, so I'd get what I wanted more than anything else in the world at the time. You are truly a special case, Tom."

"Confundous?" he asked, and the words were out before he could stop them. All that registered in his mind was that he wanted her to know the lengths he would go to on her behalf, that he placed her goals and priorities almost on the same level as his own, and that he'd carry out schemes to further hers the same as he'd do for his own. And without thinking, intoxicated by her presence, he said, "It was the Cruciatus curse, much more potent, and certain of being effective. I wouldn't do anything less for myself."

She had seized him by the upper arms, and jerked away from his touch, surprise written across her face. For a moment, he cursed himself for losing himself for a second, but relaxed and pushed the thought of damage control away when she said, "Merlin, Tom, it's half past six- we've got to get ready." And that was that.

But he couldn't shake the thought that something was wrong, because she wasn't the same as she had been before. She shied away from his touch, she didn't fit against him as naturally as she used too. The adoration in her eyes was gone, half the time, and he had to _work_ to coax it back from her. In short, things between them were no longer effortless, and he didn't know why.

Lord Voldemort was unaccustomed to not getting explanations. Not getting an explanation from Minerva frustrated him unduly. And most frustrating of all, there was nothing he could do about it, because the change didn't seem to bother her.

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><p><strong>AN: Hehehehehehehe. Tom, if Minerva won't want you after this... I'm single. ;) Also, IDK if Sprout got married, and I DON'T CARE. :P In this fic, she apparently will at some point in the future. Let's say that they're going to the rehearsal dinner or something. I don't really care. What I DO care about is a certain dark lord... ;) ;) ;) ...who I had waaaay too much fun writing in this chapter!**

**OKAY but enough fangirling from me! I think it's totally like him to not realize what's going on in her head, and being completely certain that he knows her best. His overconfidence for everything is always his downfall in the books, so I think it follows that he doesn't see the warning signs that she's not the person he perceives her to be. Tom, darling, stagnation always leads to defeat. Always. Anyway, love to all those who reviewed, and please do so again! It makes my day. :D **


	9. Promise Me

So... you all probably think I have no life by now. BUT I DO. I'M ON A WRITING BINGE. ANYWAY TO THE NOTE. First of all thank yous to all who reviewed! This next installment happened as follows: I was going through some stuff, and I found a paper from back in April with a fanfic scrawled on it! So here it is, a piece written after some really bad decisions. And since I remember all too well what inspired this, I have a bit of advice. Dearest readers, DO NOT go for a brisk two mile walk without shoes on blazing hot asphalt. Enjoy. :P

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><p>"Come in," she called irritably, not bothering to turn around. She lay facedown on her bed, sprawled out with her limbs at odd angles and her face in the pillow, muffling her voice. She apparently hadn't been heard properly, as the knocking grew still more insistent, and groaning in exasperation, she propped herself up on her elbows, a scowl twisting her lips. "Come in," she repeated, clearly this time. "Not as though I'm <em>not in the mood<em> to see people, or anything."

The door opened a crack. Tom poked his head in, craning his neck around so he could see her better. "_Some_one's in a very bad temper," he remarked. "Why didn't you meet me after work for dinner? I had to spend the evening glowering at my watch, and being completely horrible to the waitress. She left in tears," he added thoughtfully. "Where _were _you?"

"Go away, Tom." She flopped back onto the pillows.

"No." He glanced at her, eyes widening suddenly. "Merlin, how did _that_ happen?"

Minerva raised her shoulders, her back arched as tightly as possible so she could follow his line of sight. "Oh, this?" she laughed ruefully. "You've never seen blistered feet before?"

"Not on someone with twenty-four hour access to well-fitting shoes, no."

"Oops. Forgot, sorry."

"Eh." He poked her heel, swollen and an angry shade of red, causing her to gasp and kick his hand away. "So how'd this happen? I take it this is why you didn't meet me."

"Promise me you won't laugh at me, or say 'I told you so,' or anything like that."

"You and I both know I don't make promises I'm liable to break."

She only stared at him. "Really, Tom? I'm in serious pain, and you tell me _that_?"

He lay alongside her, pulling her against him. "Go ahead and tell me."

She tensed, but allowed him to massage her shoulders and back, sinking back into the pillows. "Let's just say if you're ever feeling plucky, do _not_ go for a two mile stroll -walking at a brisk pace- through London on the _street without shoes._" She sighed. "If I weren't such an incompetent healer, I could have fixed it, but I'm afraid I'll end up making things worse. And I don't seem to have any aloe." She sighed again. "Where's Poppy when you need her?"

He shifted positions, lifting her foot by the ankle and examining it. "Why would you do that when the sun was as blazing hot as it was today anyway? And why wouldn't you use a heat repelling charm on your feet first?"

She let her foot drop limp in his hand. "I've made so many bad decisions, it isn't even funny anymore."

"I can heal it for you," he said. "I've had injuries of a similar nature before."

"You're sweet, but that's okay." She winced as his probing fingers brushed the sole of her foot when he released it. "It'll be fine in a couple of days." She tried to ease herself out of bed, and noticed Tom's face change in the corner of her eye. Sore as she was, she didn't anticipate him apprehending her and pulling her back to the bed. A playful and brief struggle ended with her on top of him, hair in her eyes and a pout on her lips.

Tom laughed. "What's the matter?" he said as his arms tightened around her. When she refused to answer, he pressed kisses down her temple to her neck, slowly turning her face towards him. "Besides your feet, of course."

She met his eyes at last, and wished he didn't have to be in one of his charming moods. "Tom, can you promise me-"

"-that I won't laugh at you and your burned feet? Of course."

"No. Can you promise me that you'll stop your dabbling in Dark Magic for me?"

He just stared. "I...Minerva... how dare-"

She pulled his left arm from her waist and held it in front of his eyes. "Why does this burn black, at times? What purpose does it serve, exactly?" When he still refused to answer, she dropped his arm and lowered her face to his, their noses brushing. She softened her tone, pushed her shoulders forward, and smiled tightly for a brief moment, an expression that he always loved to see. "Can you promise me that you'll stop for me? You said you'd control for me, scheme for me, torture for me, and even kill for me. Would you stop all of that, for me? Can you promise me that?"

He inhaled sharply, breath caught in his throat, and she felt his hand that cupped her cheek slide to her neck and tighten momentarily. Slowly he exhaled. "Isn't my way enough?" he said at last. "You know that I-"

"-don't make promises that you're liable to break. Right." she said softly, even though she knew all too well what he had been seconds from saying. She kissed him softly. "I think you'd better leave," she said, sliding off him. For a brief moment, his muscles remained clenched and taut, unwilling to relinquish their hold on her, but he let go, and she slipped back to the bed and eased herself to the floor. She thought for a moment that she saw his hand inch to his wand, but it was so quick she decided she must have imagined it.

"Why?" he asked, and she was thankful that the steely edge had entered his voice, rather than the confusion she had feared. "Why?" he repeated, angry this time, and she suddenly realized that for once she wasn't comfortable being in a room with Tom without her wand, and with feet so blistered that she couldn't walk -or run- away from him.

"You know why," she retorted, even after she stumbled, backing away. He towered over her, and yes, his wand was in his hand now, she saw, and he was kneeling in front of her, eyes flashing scarlet-

"You have no idea," he said in a heavily controlled voice, "what you have just done to me, Minerva." A small whimper escaped her; she had least expected him to say that.

She was glad he didn't kiss her good-bye, still more glad that he didn't hesitate to take his belongings strewn around her flat, accumulated over two years. It made it that much easier to watch him go.

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><p><strong>AN: Awwww. :( I feel so bad doing this to her in this chapter. And I feel kind of bad for Voldemort too. Poor poor guy. Well, my Lord, if you're lonely... ;) **

**GAAAH I'M DOING IT AGAIN. BUT ANYWAY. This was interesting to write. If you think you saw symbolism, odds are you're write. So hit me with it in the reviews! Promise me... that you'll review. No really, please do, because it does so make me happy. :')**


	10. Over

Hey! STOP HITTING ME OVER THE HEAD, YOU STUPID MUSE. STOP IT. Guys, this is the third chapter I'm starting in one day. This is killing meeeee. But whatever. Here's yet ANOTHER chapter. The last one, actually. Gah.

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><p>Minerva hadn't thought things through. Of that, he was certain. Yes, he'd underestimated her. Yes, he'd gone too far. Yes, making amends would be difficult. No, she'd very likely never trust him again. But she still hadn't thought things through. What kind of imbecile was she to think he'd just leave without a fight? Did she honestly think a quiet "I think you'd better leave" would be the end of it? After two years? After two years invested in <em>her<em>? in the both of them? The woman must be mad. And to think, she expected to continue her life as though he'd never entered it? Their routines were orchestrated so that their paths would always cross, and even if she changed things, she couldn't change her work hours. He would still be able to find her regardless. And if he wasn't satisfied with what he saw... He didn't like the thought, but no matter how much he'd regret it afterward, what needed to be done would have to be done. He could only hope he could deem her trustworthy. She knew too much.

He first saw her passing one of their favorite cafes in Muggle London, and saw her again en route to her apartment. Twice, he behaved as though nothing had happened. He was sure she hadn't seen him. One thing that pleased him was her face, drawn and slightly forlorn, her lips compressed to a thin line. Good. She deserved whatever regret she was feeling.

He couldn't get over how it had crept up on him with no warning, though. How could he, Lord Voldemort, misread signs like that? Yes, he had noticed something was amiss, but how did he not realize what exactly it was that drove her to this point? Had he known... he would have been far less open. But he had been so sure... he had been confident that she would ultimately come to join him. This was a blow to him, not only because he had lost her, but because it had sown doubt in his mind. The whole thing made his rage threaten to boil over, and in a brief moment he envisioned her going home to find the Dark Mark hovering over her house, visible only to her, and knowing what waited inside. But he quieted those thoughts; that would be far too noticeable, and she would certainly be missed the second her letters stopped going home. He wondered what she would write of now, with himself gone.

Perhaps he'd give her something to write about.

He had to force down the anger when he first saw her, had to remind himself of the repercussions of any rash behaviour in the moment. When she seated herself at the breakfast table, a mug of tea in one hand and her spare hand shading her eyes, he soundlessly Apparated in. Her wards were easily bypassed.

"Why are you here?"

He tried for an innocent, baffled look. "To see you."

"Unless you can promise what I asked, I'm afraid I don't want to see you again."

"Minerva, be reasonable."

Her eyes flashed. "I've been reasonable long enough. Do you think I was oblivious to what you were doing, the whole time? I'm sure whatever little you told me was heavily censored. Do you think I didn't read those books you left here so often? Not skim, but read, your annotations and all? And the fact that you can't quit this for me and insist on your campaign for pureblood supremacy- oh, didn't know I knew about that, I see -is ample proof for me that I am _not_ important to you, that you do _not_ care for me, and that you are _not_ capable of caring for anyone besides yourself! The only thing I regret," she said, tone softening, "was allowing myself to-" She stopped abruptly. "Well, it certainly isn't important now. And I'll get over you. But there is nothing you can say to convince me to come back."

"Finished with your tirade, yet?"

She made a face at him for which she would later become famous. "Get out."

"I take it you are. Will you hear me out?"

"I told you to get out. I'm not going to be with the future self-professed dark lord." He was stunned. "That's what you want, right, Tom? Want to be the next Grindlewald?"

"Address me by my name, if you know it."

"Voldemort," she said coolly, "is a stupid name. I prefer Tom. And I prefer Tom Riddle over Lord Voldemort, but obviously I'm not getting him back."

"It's never been about pureblood supremacy," he said, returning to the earlier subject, "It's about immortality, It's about life without death. And I wanted to share that with you."

"How? Elongating your life through Dark Arts?" she snapped,

"Precisely. And I want to share-"

She laughed. "Tell it to someone with no values. Get out of my sight, Tom."

Perhaps a different approach. "How can you be so callous, Minerva." His tone was soft, gently accusatory, and he tried for a wounded expression.

She only snorted.

"Have you forgotten that I value things differently? Have you forgotten that I value you as much as-" He was behind her chair now, pressed against the wood and his hands sliding past her shoulders. He wanted to blast the chair apart; it kept them from touching.

"As what?" she asked stiffly, not turning around.

"Give me a smile, Minerva. You know I love to see you smile."

She stood suddenly, pushed the chair away, and fairly pounced on him with no warning, backing him into the wall and kissing him fiercely, kissing him as she had before the scene in December. "How I've missed that," she said softly. "Must you be so hard to get rid of?" she added, voice low. She forced a smile. "There. Now please, get out."

His self containment was gone. His wand was out, the curse left his lips, and windows were filled with blinding light from the potency of his curse. And she was screaming, which maddened him all the more. He ended it none too quickly, and looked at her dispassionately when she clung to a chair for support, her brow sweaty and fear in her face for the first time. "Why did you make me do that to you?" he murmured, a mocking smile on his lips. " I do not relish that, though you do have a lovely scream." He reached a hand out, to adjust her hair, to tip her face up-

"Get away from me." She looked at him coldly. "I've had enough of this. Tom, I know that despite your embarrassingly _childish_ display, you have at least a microscopic bit of decency left. Expend it on me, and I won't say anything. And if you don't, well-" she laughed- "let's just say there will be ample evidence to convict you. And you aren't immortal yet."

He played with the wand. One flourish...it would be so easy...

"You know that despite all this, I love you. I can't help it. And if you truly would place my life second to only your own-"

He stooped and kissed her cheek. "Never let it be said that Lord Voldemort does not show mercy, Minerva," he said coolly. He left without turning back for a final look. And it was because of the old attachment and some remnants of sentimentality that he let her live, rather than cause an unfortunate accident. He didn't hear her whisper "good-bye." He left thinking that he had misjudged her entirely, that she was a woman as calculating as himself with unfortunately opposite aims. He left thinking she had played a charade where even he had not.

He had no way of knowing how much she had cried that night.

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><p><strong>AN: Doneskies. Well, that was fun. My first complete chaptered fic! Thanks for the support, darlings. It's been lovely! For those following "If He'd Gotten the Job," I'm finally going to update that now. I promise! And I don't make promises I'm not liable to keep. ;)**

**Voldy: You... I just... character rape.**

**Me: Shuddup.**

**Review! :)**


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